The Weight of Routine

The alarm blared at seven AM, dragging me out of a half-remembered dream, and I reluctantly rolled out of bed. The weight of another day pressed down before my feet even hit the floor. By eight, I was packed into the bus, surrounded by the same hollow faces, all of us trudging through the motions. Eight hours in front of a screen, bathed in the lifeless glow of fluorescent lights, drained the color from the day. The ride home blurred past, and when I collapsed into bed, it wasn't rest I found—just another stretch of hours before the cycle repeated.

But just before sleep took hold, when the rhythmic hum of the fan was the only sound in the room, fragments of old thoughts drifted back. Three years ago. The gnawing regret, a whisper of a choice that had funneled me into this unrelenting monotony.

Another day. I stepped off the bus, the leather briefcase hanging at my side like a dead weight. Hands stuffed deep in my pockets, head down, I let the routine settle in, like an old coat that no longer fit but couldn't be shed. A gust of wind kicked up, sending a scrap of paper tumbling across the pavement until it stuck to the toe of my shoe, mocking me with its persistence.

I shook my foot, trying to dislodge it, but the paper clung on, a stubborn reminder of my own futile efforts. Annoyance bubbled up. I kicked harder, but it stayed. Finally, I bent down, more in surrender than victory, and peeled it off. I crushed it in my fist, aiming for the nearby dustbin.

The wind had other ideas. It caught the ball of paper and flung it aside, like my own failed attempt at making something stick. Frustration mounted, a curse ready to escape my lips, when a small voice cut through the haze.

"You shouldn't do that."

I looked up. A little girl in a spotless white dress, a bright ribbon in her hair, stood watching me. Her face was all innocence, but her tone was sharp. "Sorry," I muttered, the word heavy and forced.

"Sorry doesn't clean the street, mister," she said, her eyes locked on mine, as if expecting me to do more than just apologize. Her foot tapped the ground, and I could feel her expectation like a weight pressing down.

I resisted. "It wasn't my paper," I shot back, my defenses rising. "I tried to throw it away."

Her gaze followed the wind-blown paper, now far from the bin. "The street isn't a trash can," she replied, her voice level. "You seem like a smart person."

I love kids. Normally, their laughter, their unbridled joy, would soften me. But today was different. Today, something darker stirred. "If it bothers you that much," I snapped, "why don't you pick it up?"

She didn't flinch. "Mister," she said, her voice softening with concern, "what's wrong?"

"You wouldn't understand," I muttered, bitterness laced in my words. I turned away, shame settling in as I left her standing there, my heart heavy with a mix of guilt and anger.

I knew I was being a jerk. But life has a way of beating you down, turning you into someone you don't recognize. Someone you swore you'd never become.

As I walked on, the guilt gnawed at me, slowly eroding the edges of my frustration. I glanced back, hoping for some small sign that I hadn't completely failed. But the girl was gone, and so was the cursed paper.

Alone on the street, the weight of my routine pressed down harder than ever.

Who had I become?